


Raised My Boy to Be a Soldier

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Camaraderie, Canon-Typical Behavior, Drinking & Talking, Family Issues, Gen, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Inappropriate Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: General Veers and his officers trade proud militarist parent stories about their children.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Raised My Boy to Be a Soldier

Brigadier-General Grybow returns from the bar with two ale tankards in each hand, tracking pools of foam across the floor and beaming an evil smile at the three officers below the rank of general who sit at the table. “You are not allowed to refuse the beverages I buy you.” She clatters three tankards in front of them, in the little free space on the tabletop among empty glasses and half-eaten bags of TaggeCo crisps. “Drink up, gentlebeings—that’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they reply, Major Keldau grinning, Colonel Covell betraying no emotion, and Colonel Starck looking dismayed.

“You’re the usual bully, Maia,” General Veers tells Grybow as she sits back on the chair to his right side.

“And you are the usual nanny droid, sir.”

Veers laughs, reaching for the wine bottle. “Well, you and Daly did not seem to dislike that when _my_ company came in to break _yours_ out of encirclement on Gosho IV. Am I right, Daly?” He pours half of the remaining wine into Brigadier-General Sunstriker’s glass to his left, the other half into his own.

“Thank you, sir,” Sunstriker said.

“For the Derellium white or for saving your skin?”

“Both, sir.” She clears her throat and raises the glass. “Since it is my turn to propose a toast, let us give one to General Veers—the best division commander I could ever hope to serve under.”

The clink of glassware and the cheering noises drown out Veers’ half-chuckling, half-huffing protestations, “For hells’ sake, Daly, you and the rest of you sorry lot, I cannot drink a toast to myself!” The admiral seems quite happy with that custom, if this first standard week of dinners at the senior staff officers mess has been any indication; while Veers is keen to learn from the _actual_ commander of Death Squadron’s style of leadership, he does not care one bit for picking up Admiral Ozzel’s habits. But he has to raise his own glass, too, and takes a long swallow of warm, fruity wine, the sediment grit making his throat itch. A pleasant, slightly sleepy balminess spreads from his stomach to the rest of his body. He relaxes on the chair, rocking it back on the hind legs. Grybow is chugging her ale with her head thrown back and elbows sprawled on the tabletop, Sunstriker chipping off at her wine with dainty sips; when Veers first met them, he'd found it hard to believe the former hailed from 500 Republica and the latter from Mos Eisley. Grimy blood-caked uniforms erased such differences, anyway. Covell and Keldau, their tankards already half drunk, nag poor teetotaler Starck who, after the one sip he’s had for the toast, sports a reddened face, a moustache of beer foam, and a bit of his native Ringo Vindan drawl creeping into his schoolboy Core accent.

He smiles into his glass as he drinks a small mouthful. Since the very first instant High Command assigned him to this post, he’s known it was going to be an unmissable one—as if any officer with a backbone could excuse themselves out of rosters personally approved by Lord Vader, for his own legion. But tonight is the clincher. This Army officers’ lounge aboard the _Executor_. Old comrades, alive and thriving, with several years’ worth of stories to swap. It reminds him of the first campaigns, when almost all his academy classmates were still alive, and it surprises him how much he’s missed companionship. It feels like the first day of shore leave after a long haul in the vac.

“Well, don’t complain,” Starck waves a finger at Keldau and Covell, “if I fall asleep and you have to drag me to my bunk!” He takes an annoyed sip from his ale and grimaces.

“Be careful; he means it.” Sunstriker dabs wine stains off her mouth with a crumpled napkin she used, during the second round of drinks, as makeshift noteflimsi to sketch out the Rebel order of battle at Bompreil with emulsauce and win an argument with Covell.

Grybow cants her head past Veers to cock an eyebrow at her. “And you know that from personal experience?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Can it, you two!” Starck elbows Covell in the ribs, which does nothing to stifle his and Keldau’s fit of hoarse laughter. “It was _one_ time! And long ago!”

“Eleven years,” specifies Sunstriker. To Grybow’s questioning gawk, she replies matter-of-factly, “As the most senior officer present at that bar, it was my duty to ensure nobody died.”

Veers smirks at Grybow. “What was that about me being a nanny droid?”

“S’pose that’s where Daly learned her mad skills at carrying unconscious people to safety.”

“Those young men were lighter than stormtroopers in full armor.” Sunstriker puts down her glass, empty now. “I am unsure whether I could carry Colonel Starck, as he is built now, across a muddy no being’s land.”

“Colonel, sir, the brigadier-general says you’ve grown fat,” says Keldau.

“Kriff you and the fathier you rode in on, Tonia.” Starck levels an unfocussed squint on Veers. “I apologize for the improper language, sir.” Keldau, in the meantime, protests something about never riding a smelly ovine when she can have AT-ATs.

“We’re all growing old and frail, ain’t we, Daly?” Grybow’s ale, too, has been depleted to a puddle of rust-colored foam on the bottom of the tankard. On the subject of old age and frailty, a part of Veers’ mind—the one monitoring the mild nausea at the pit of his stomach, the light feel of his head, and the dimmed awareness of his senses to the surroundings—hopes she does not intend to ransack the bar for a fourth round. “Dawned on me when I got a holo from my son, couple weeks ago; a repulsor-trip mine brought down his ambulance—nasty blast that was meant for heavier armors, I reckon. Only he and one of the wounded survived. My boy Chalin hauled the girl out of the debris and carried her on his back to the outpost five klicks away. Took him a standard day and a half to get there; insurgents raided the speederway, so he had to cut through the woods. But he brought her there alive, and got promoted to medevac squad sergeant.”

“Impressive,” says Veers. Not least impressive is the fond smile of motherly pride that softens Grybow’s face. He looks down and fidgets with the empty glass, before Grybow’s expression can remind him of Eliana, in a blueish hologram, telling him that Zev has been effortlessly reading books intended for older younglings than his age.

“Thanks, sir. I’m proud of my boy, but Sithspit, it’s like the brat wants to one-up me at helping win the war. He’s young, and ripped like a gundark, so the odds are in his favor.” He can _hear_ the smile in her voice. “What keeps me going is knowing I may be an old hag, but still damn fine for blasting Rebels to the ninth hell.”

“By my people’s standards,” speaks up Keldau, “a warrior’s never too old for that, ma’am. Or too young, either.”

“Aye, I’m sure any Mandalorian toddler worth their beskar is more than capable of killing a grown sentient. You got one of those?”

“A girl, ma’am. Her name means ‘strong’ in Mando’a, Dral.”

 _I always wanted a daughter_. Veers clenches his wine-sticky teeth, as if that irrational wish from long ago could escape and get itself spoken out on its own accord.

“And she is quite strong, in fact. She’s fifteen and a platoon commander in the Viceroy’s Super Commandos,” Keldau cheerfully proceeds to freeze everyone’s blood and prompt a groaning chorus of _are you serious, what the kriff, I wasn’t even allowed on the HoloNet unsupervised at that age_. Keldau taps her fist on Covell’s shoulder. “What’s that face, Freja? Are you feeling jealous you’re the only one here who doesn’t get to brag about their awesome kids?”

“First off, _this face_ is my _happy_ face.” He flashes her his most Karkarodon-like smile, which only makes Keldau laugh. “Secondly, not jealous at all.”

Veers sits back straight, the chair under him creaking quietly in relief. Good man, Covell. Can always be counted on to derail any conversation on familial happiness. Veers almost can’t believe he used to find it nerve-wracking, like forgetting a superstitious good-luck little ritual before a mission, to hear the man’s scathing comments on his two divorces.

“Before we married, my ex-wife had adopted a war orphan—Anyuta. That’s the name of an early spring flower in Old Corulagese.”

This is news to Veers and at odds with everything he knows about Covell and what little, unsatisfactory civilian life the colonel has had.

“Of course I gave up the whole parental responsibility when her mother divorced me, and I haven’t seen her in ages, but she’d still send me Empire Day greetings every year. And, well, this year,” on Covell’s face spreads a grin, lopsided with scars and stark-white, “the holocard was signed by one Sergeant-Major Anyuta Farzal of the Imperial Army Artillery.”

Veers’ stomach lurches. He isn’t used to holding this much alcohol anymore. It is definitely the alcohol.

Covell turned to Starck, whose head is bobbing down on his chest, and clapped his hands near the poor lightweight’s ear. “Boring conversation anyway, innit, Eneko?”

 _Bored_ is not the word Veers would have used for himself. Whatever that feeling of quietly mounting anxiety is called, drying his mouth and clamping his throat and quickening his heartbeat beyond the normal queasiness of mixing ale and wine, he does not wish to oblige it with a name.

Starck looks up blearily and sulkily with a sleepy groan.

Well, they are just going to rib the teetotaler again. Relax back into camaraderie and good humor—he hopes.

“No. I heard _everything_ ,” Starck slurs. “I may be sozzled but I’m not a kriffing savage without manners.” His chest heaves and he lets out a belch, barely catching it with his palm.

Grybow first, they all laugh. Safe ground.

Starck waves his hand and raises his voice, which does nothing to dispel the drunken slur, “All our children are thriving and following in our footsteps, and that is great! So is my son! Jarmo joined the Army. Yes, it alliterates. I’m sozzled and I can say the word ‘alliterate’, Tonia, how is that?”

“Most remarkable. I take back everything I said about you being a lightweight.” She sticks a thumb up. “So, when are we going to see you and your _ad’ika_ piloting a walker together?”

“Not anytime soon.” Starck presses his palm to his mouth again.

It makes his heartbeat pound on the verge of hurting, but Veers allows his wine-numbed imagination to visualize the cockpit of an AT-AT, himself issuing orders to the pilots and Zevulon, in battle gear matching his own, snapping on attention. He pictures the regulations-standard posture, the pristine uniform, the height even, at eye level with him—although he has no idea how tall the boy has grown since he last saw him in a non-holographic form. Zev’s face is more adult than it ought to be, clear-skinned, clean-shaven, square-jawed. Something out of those old recruitment posters that used Captain Veers’ likenesses. But with Eliana’s eyes.

As soon as the eructation is dammed, Starck swallows and huffs, his tongue lolling out for an instant. “He just got commissioned in the Maritime Division. Goin’ to pilot waveskimmers, not AT-ATs. The post is… whatsitsname… Da Soocha, or something like that—I think it’s Huttese. Patrolling the oceans in case Mon Cal refugees try to make themselves at home there.”

Grybow snorts. “They try that on every waterworld. Next thing you know, the cozy settlement of peaceful fish-people is a fully operational Rebel base. Armed to the teeth.”

“Do Mon Cal even _have_ teeth?” They do and their teeth are sharp, Veers already knows from experience, just like he knows that freakish xenobiology is a topic soldiers tend to latch pruriently on to.

“They do have small but rather sharp teeth, sir.” Sunstriker gives him a quizzical look that, were they not all half-drunk and good comrades, would offend the general’s dignity. “I am surprised you do not remember that from the Rebel troopers we encountered on Gosho.”

“That was quite a long time ago, Brigadier-General, and I was rather too busy _blasting_ Rebel aliens to take due notice of their anatomy.”

Half-drunk or not, Sunstriker is smart enough to catch the general’s drift and school her features back into respectfulness. “Of course, sir. That reminds me… You likely never knew, but I am not the only member of my family who owes you their life from back then.”

“I merely did my duty.”

Grybow lets out a short cackle. “Hells, Daly, your boy’s career started before he was even born. Makes me a bit jealous that Chalin isn’t that much hardcore.”

“What does it mean, before he was… even…” Realization dawns on Veers heavier and heavier at each word, a pall of dread making his skin crawl and winding itself tight around his chest. His eyes linger on Sunstriker’s lower torso, juxtaposing a stained, tattered poncho on the clean uniform of the present.

He tears his stare away as soon as Sunstriker places a hand on her belt buckle.

“To be fair, I myself did not know until the medidroid gave me a full scan. I assumed the lack of menstruation was a consequence of combat stress.”

“An expedient one, for once,” mutters Grybow, eliciting Keldau’s vigorous nodding.

“Finding out was… quite a fright.” Sunstriker shrugs. “If anything, I was able to trace the pregnancy back to its root cause and spur an investigation on the sexual health supplies for the Imperial Army—supplies which turned out to have been poorly manufactured and improperly tested by the contractor.”

“Nine hells, ma’am,” pipes up Covell, “was the kid’s father one of those poor sods who got radiation poisoning from condoms?”

Sunstriker is silent for a moment. “There was no father.” And no further explanation, either.

Covell blinks, but Keldau whispers to his ear something that prevents him from prying, of which Veers overhears the words ‘Tatooine thing’.

“It is far more important that there was a brave man who saved the child’s life. So I named my son Maximilian.”

Veers’ cheeks heat. He swallows again, his mouth as dry as Sunstriker’s homeworld. “You flatter.”

“With all due respect, sir, I do not.” Sunstriker sighs. “But I regret to inform you, Maximilian has already made up his mind as to not joining the Army.”

“Hasn’t he?” A shameful wave of relief washes over Veers. Mercifully, his officers must be assuming that the small smile quirking up the corners of his mouth is simple good humor; in his heart, he knows it is relief. _So Zev is not the only disappointment_. A petty, evil little joy.

“He has just finished his first year of junior course at Skystrike Academy. Top of his class.”

The smirk freezes on Veers’ face, while Grybow whistles, Starck stammers and Covell and Keldau howl congratulations. Skystrike Academy—truly a drop in the bucket, just one of the starfighter corps’ most elitist and meat-grinding schools. Young Max Sunstriker must have talent, dedication, and balls of durasteel. All the qualities Zev has consistently failed to display at Prefsbelt Academy.

“Thank you, Colonel, Major.” A grin spreads on her face at every word, like light beaming through crumbling duracrete. “I still struggle to believe it is the same boy whom I had to talk out of enrolling in the Supply Fleet track.”

They laugh. Veers can only smile, despite the urge to grit his teeth. Ignores the nauseous fizz at the pit of his throat. Hides the hot anger rippling through his muscles, into his clenched fists sweating inside the creaking gloves.

“Speaking of boys, General, how is your… Zevulon, right?”

He tastes winey spit-up in his mouth, scorching with bile. He gulps it back. “Right,” he says through gritted teeth. “He is well.” Hesitation would invite further prodding, or worse, it would lead them to drop the subject and seek out information from the rumor mill. His best option is direct counterattack, discomfort be damned. “Very well, in fact.” Veers has no idea how his son is, exactly; Zev’s latest one-line message dates back to four standard months ago. “He will be graduating from Prefsbelt next year.” This he can tell with certainty; he knows the Empire-standardized academic calendar, and he knows Zev’s grades were mediocre, but not so bad as to compromise the milestone.

“Prefsbelt, huh?” says Grybow. “Did he choose the Navy because one Veers in the Army is enough?”

“Yes, you could say it was out of spite.” This is true. Zev told him in insultingly clear terms after finishing prep school.

Thank the stars, Grybow mistakes the plain truth for a joke and chuckles. “Ah, well! As long as the youngsters do their bit for the Empire, whatever that bit is, all’s going to be fine.”

“And what’s that bit going to be for your boy, General, if I may ask?” Covell casually hurls a live thermal detonator at Veers. “Since he’s so close to graduating, he should’ve picked a specialized training track already.”

There it is, that far too tight cuirass squeezing the wind out of his chest. “I don’t know.” He hears with his ears and feels with his tongue and lungs and vocal chords his voice drone on, but it is like listening to a pre-recorded hologram, “Senior academies discourage cadets from being in frequent contact with their families, and Zevulon understands that, should he share every detail of his academic progress with me, it might appear like he were trying to exploit my fame rather than advance on his own merits.” Veers is aware of Zev’s underwhelming progress in just enough details as to not want to know more.

“I tried to explain that to my husband a hundred times,” Starck re-emerged from alcohol-induced coma, “but he kept pestering Jarmo to comm home every standard day.” He hiccups. “Civilians can’t take these things seriously, sir.” Hiccup. “He only stopped when the commandant issued Jarmo a demerit for—” Hiccup. “—excessive attachment to non-Imperial values.”

That has never been a problem with Zev. But Eliana always asked, _Max, please. At least once a week, it’s fine even if it’s just literally two words to let me know you’re fine. Yes yes I know you’re very busy, but… Please_. He always promised. Always broke the promise.

“Zevulon sounds like a very sensible young man, sir,” said Keldau. “There are far too many who think they can bank on their family name and breeze through the ranks like the fate of the Empire depends on their good graces. It pains me to admit it, but even Mandalorians sometimes aren’t any better.”

“For that matter, Zev wrote down his mother’s surname when he filed his enrolment form.”

“Is that legal on Denon?” asks Covell.

The calm and collected general who has so efficiently taken control of Veers’ body shakes his head. “I had to comm the commandant and personally tell her it was neither a prank nor an attempt at fraud, just a boy being a little overzealous in not wanting to be… in the shadow of a famous father.”

“That reminds me, Major, I’ve always wondered,” Grybow turned to Keldau, “do you Mandos have double surnames? I always thought it’d make sense, with all the clan pride you’ve got.”

“Well, no, ma’am, there’s an entire protocol of precedence and conventions to regulate family naming, and ignoring it sparked more than one blood feud in the past. One can’t change their surname unless they legally declare their parent a _dar’buir_. That’s like a divorce, but you as a child are divorcing from your parent. And it’s very shameful, too—for the parent, that is.”

They all natter on for some time; Veers smiles and responds jovially, not listening. The racing of his heart makes him dizzy and when he stands up the Super Star Destroyer around him spins like an ejected escape pod. When Grybow floats the idea of another round, he excuses himself with paperwork he actually finished reviewing before dinner and, leaving the other officers while Sunstriker politely orders Keldau to intone a filthy-worded Mando’a war song, returns to his quarters.

He halts his hands before, by reflex, they start undoing his belt and tunic buttons, even if his torso feels clammy and taut and breathing comes too quick and shallow for a man of his health. Still in full uniform, the general activates the comm unit and composes a two-lines message for Cadet Zevulon Veers. His gloved finger does not hesitate to tap the send button any more than it would the trigger of a blaster. By now, the general has accumulated decades of experience in interacting with hellishly-tempered people; the idea of an abrasive reply from Zev does not wound him as bloodily as it used to.

However, he is getting old. And Zev is a man now. Veers damn well hopes that Zev, even if he hates him, has at long last learnt to behave himself. A simple _Dear father, I am fine_ will do. He asks for nothing more, as he stares out into the holographic menu of the inbox. _Please_.

#

The message is read four standard hours later, when it is evening on Prefsbelt and the cadets are allowed recreational time before lights-out. Soon after, it is marked as unread, so Zev can pretend he has never opened it, and moved to the trash folder. A standard week later, it is automatically and permanently deleted from the Prefsbelt Academy HoloNet servers.


End file.
